The Mourning
by sleep-dealer
Summary: Stuart can't remember the last time he heard the song, but it's still fresh in his memory. It had been one of his more heartfelt recordings. If only he'd known the windmill would never stop turning in his mind. Implied 2D/Noodle, Phase 3.


Stuart Pot is having a bit of trouble breathing. He sniffles, then sneezes, hitting a rotten note on the banjo in his lap. His whole body lurches forward and he lets out a sickly groan. The air in here is thick and hot, reeking of the stupid maple tree outside. Maybe he ought to close the window.

There's no roommate to help him out with the expenses, so this month he had to choose between rent and electricity. The air conditioning was cut off with the lights two days ago. Outside, the sun is setting at an oppressive speed. Soon it'll be too dark to do anything, so he goes back to plucking the banjo, figuring he'll be out of time soon enough. Not that it matters.

Every once in a while he finds something that sounds nice, maybe a four or five note melody that he imagines would sell with a nice beat to back it, but nothing really resonates with him the way it used to. He can't seem to speak the language of rhythm anymore. There's no soul to it. The music is gone. Stuart only kept one keyboard after he set off on his own - currently collecting dust on the night stand - and he hasn't opened his mouth to sing since the floating island went down.

Yawning, he kicks a self help flier out from under his shoe, regarding the discussion group's mantra: "You hold the key to your own recovery."

True, for some. There are a few people in the discussion group who will eventually recover, heal themselves through self love and independence, but Stuart knows that he will never find the magical key that will make everything better again. How does he know? Simple. The others in the discussion group have something he doesn't: motivation. A drive, a desire to get better. Stuart just doesn't see the point.

Logically, yes, he knows that he should put the crash site out of mind and forget it ever happened, but it's impossible. He feels the impact in every beefed up alcoholic that pulls him into a hug, hears the explosion in every depressed middle aged woman sobbing on his shoulders, tastes the ash in his words every time he tells them it will be all right. They're recovering without him. They drink and cry because a part of them is broken. Eventually, they'll pick up the pieces and fix the crooked cogs. In time they'll cope with their abandonment issues, end their addictions, and get closure from their cheating lover. The machinery will be running smooth again; they'll find the keys to their recovery.

But Stuart? Stuart has nothing to unlock. There is no loose screw, no crack in the wall. There is only empty space. A part of him is literally missing, half of a zen bond he believed could never be severed. Exactly how do you heal something that isn't there? How do you get to the other side of the wall, when there is no...?

There's a knock at the door that jolts Stuart out of his thoughts. He can't imagine who it could be. There hasn't been a visitor, or even anyone asking for him, since the band broke up.

Another knock, faster, harder. Stuart just sits there, unsure what to do. Maybe if he pretends no one is home, they'll go away...

Just then, a long finger with knobby knuckles pops through the mail slot, revealing a set of two black beetles in drops of white. Stuart knows those eyes. The whole world seems to darken just a little more.

"Hellooo! Anybody home!"

The voice cuts him like a machete right through the ribs. It sends his stomach into tight knots. He feels his arms growing heavy. There's a cold lump forming just beneath his Adam's apple. For a second, he considers diving underneath the bed and hiding, but the unwelcome guest has already seen him. Those awful, awful eyes look right at him.

"Open the door, dullard!"

He sets the banjo down and gets up from the bed. There's no use in faking it now. As he goes to open the door, he feels his hand weld to the brass knob. This is a familiar feeling. Stuart has felt this once before, struggling to find his way through black smoke, throat burning, eyes tearing from the heat, calling out with no response: hopelessness.

"2D!"

The smell of hard liquor sprinkled on rotting garbage fills the whole front room. Murdoc's hair looks like it hasn't been washed since the last time Stuart saw him over a year ago, and his skin is greener than ever. Stuart's whole body instinctively tenses when Murdoc's rough hand comes to his shoulder, expecting a smack or a punch.

"It's been too long!"

"Or not long enough." Stuart resolves to skip the formalities and get right to the point. "What're you doing here?"

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"You and I aren't friends." They haven't been for a long time. Stuart isn't sure they ever will be again. Somehow, that's a comforting thought.

Murdoc slithers past him and into the apartment without permission. "After all we've been through?"

More like all he'd put them through.

The bassist drops down on Stuart's bed, a cloud of musk floating up and disappearing near the ceiling. He grimaces, and slides one finger across a note on the keyboard, rubbing the dust along the indent of his thumb. "You're doing well for yourself," he says, sounding just sarcastic enough.

"You could say that."

Stuart doesn't step away from the open door. He's been doing well enough in a place where the walls don't bleed and demons don't fly out of the faucets. As well as he can get on his own, with one income and no electricity that is. Honestly, it's still a hell of a lot better than riding with Murdoc.

"Got any booze?"

"What do you want?"

Murdoc lifts up his eyebrows, trying to look offended, but it's an unnatural expression that doesn't suit his face, so it only takes a few seconds for his forehead to drop back down. His lips follow suit, turning up into sinister curls, showing his front row of shark-like teeth.

"You don't want to make conversation first?" He presses down on a piano key, but no sound comes out. There's no electricity to charge it, and even if there were, the instrument has been turned off for weeks. Stuart's not even sure what it sounds like anymore. "It's only polite."

"Since when do you care about being polite?"

Murdoc throws his head back and cackles deep in the back of his throat. "What's got your panties in a knot, face-ache?" He points.

Stuart's fingers are locked up into fists. He lets them relax, finding a spot on the floor and breathing deeply. One of those alcoholics came from a private seminar with a breathing activity to teach the discussion posse. It's one of the only useful things the group therapy has taught him. Just to breathe. _She_ would have told him to breathe. _She_ would have told him to stand his ground, not to let Muds get the best of him. Breathe.

"You're not still upset about the El Manana incident, are you?"

The name of the song sends another shock wave ripping through Stuart's upper body. He notices that his underarms have become damp. He says nothing, which only seems to edge Murdoc on.

"Ahhh," he muses, "So that's it."

Stuart doesn't look up from his breathing exercise as the bassist stands. He can't remember the last time he heard the song, but it's still fresh in his memory. It had been one of his more heartfelt recordings.

If only he'd known the windmill would never stop turning in his mind.

Had he been close to filling the void before today? Before the past came barging through the door?

"How'd you even find me?" Stuart asks, trying to diffuse the topic.

"I never lost you," Murdoc replies. "It's been a year, mate." He isn't ready to let this conversation die; Stuart can hear it in his voice. "What are you still sobbing over? She's gone. Let it go."

Let it go?

Can't Murdoc see that's what he's been trying to do? Desperately? Doesn't he realize just how toxic this exchange will be for Stuart's..._ recovery?_

"What do you want?" Stuart asks again, firmer this time.

"I want you to come with me to the new recording studio."

The two dark circles on Stuart's face are glistening as he glances up. "New studio?" he asks. "But what about...?"

"Kong Studios? Oh, I burned that lot down months ago." Somehow Stuart isn't surprised. Murdoc's most impulsive plans always seem to be the most destructive. Wait, didn't he still have some records left in his old room? Drat. "What's with that look? Don't tell me you really thought that place was operable."

"I didn't suppose any place was operable."

"And that's why we needed something new!"

"We?"

Murdoc shoves his hand into his pocket and fumbles about until he finds a rather expensive looking motorolla cell phone. Stolen, Stuart would imagine. Or maybe not. The bassist takes him by the shoulder and leans in close to show him a picture of what looks like a glob of chewed up bubble gum floating out in the ocean.

"I've got the whole thing set up," Murdoc says, sounding excited. "Our own, private island in the middle of nowhere, devoid of all distractions. Give it a chance! I know it looks like an eye sore, but trust me, it's ideal for recording." He takes a short pause, and something flashes across his face that's gone before Stuart can pin it down. "Ideal for forgetting."

Stuart holds his breath.

"I've got a few instrumental tracks ready," Murdoc goes on. "All they need is that sweet, vocal touch."

"No." Stuart doesn't even have to think about it. He ducks out from under Murdoc's grasp, shaking his head. "No," he says again. "You need to get out."

"Oh, come on!" Murdoc throws a hand up, like a child throwing a fit. "You don't really think a third Gorillaz campaign is going to sell if I change the singer, do you? The fans would piss themselves!"

Stuart drops his forehead into his palm, trying to fend off the beginnings of a migraine. "Look, I've got a life, awright?"

Murdoc snickers. "You call this a life? You call a lonely flat with no electricity a _life? _Don't fuck yourself too sweet, mate."

"Out."

"In any case, I don't really have a choice, and neither do you. You're a key part of the equation. Replacing you would be like replacing Cobain or Osborne. It'd fuck everything up, 2D."

Stuart winces. "Don't call me that," he mumbles.

"Why not?" Murdoc retorts. "That's your name."

"It's a stage name that_ you_ gave me."

The bassist rolls his eyes, growing noticeably irritable. "What-the-fuck-ever, if you're really gonna be like that. Face-ache suits you better, anyway, doesn't it?" He groans and rubs the back of his neck. "Though I don't really see what the big deal is. Even Noodle called you 2D."

This one sends a tidal wave straight down to Stuart's feet. Everything locks up. If he'd even been considering the possibility of coming back before, it's all gone and dried up now. He snaps his head around, shoulders at level with his ears, and takes tremendous steps forward, closing in on Murdoc, who edges towards the door.

"I'm done with that business," Stuart emphasizes. Murdoc tries to get a word in, but Stuart refuses to allow it. "I'm done with Gorillaz. I'm done with you. Get out. Get out right now."

Before long, Murdoc is outside, muttering, trying to argue his case. Stuart doesn't hear a word of it. Just before slamming the door, he adds, "Don't ever contact me again."

Then Murdoc disappears.

Stuart expects him to put up a screaming match from the other side of the wall, but the bassist is surprisingly silent. He keeps an eye on the peep hole just to make sure Murdoc actually leaves, and soon enough he does, after a long moment of glaring, as if he knows that Stuart is watching him. Eventually, though, he stomps off, and Stuart is left alone. Finally. Thank goodness.

The drained young man stands there for a long time, just thinking. He'll have to move out of this apartment, that much is a given. Maybe leave the city. Leave the country, even. He could head over to the United States, plop himself somewhere in the mid-west, dye his hair and change his name. Otherwise this won't be the last he'll hear of Murdoc.

It might have done him some good to get back into the recording scene. It'd put clean sheets on his bed, at the very least. In fact, he'd go so far as to say that going back to Gorillaz could have been the perfect way to keep occupied, maybe even face the demon dwelling in his shadow. By associating with the old surroundings, the old group of people, he could potentially tear the windmill down all together. But he feels good about the result, either way. It's his decision to make, not Murdoc's. It's his decision to say no, to cut himself off from his band mates and their destructive habits. El Manana only served to prove just how far Gorillaz was willing to go for an image. Why would Stuart stick his own neck out there?

Frankly, how are they even a band - how are they Gorillaz, no less - without...?

Stuart stops, shakes his head, and moves over to the window to see the last of the day's light creep beneath the skyline. This is the right choice. He's doing good for himself, just like Murdoc said.

He watches his reflection on the glass as he slides it shut, his hollow eyes starting to feel a little murky. There is alcohol getting warmer by the second in the fridge, though he didn't offer it to Murdoc. Maybe tonight would be a good night to bust it open.

This is where the breathing activities come in handy. Keeping a cap on things, he picks a car on the street and follows it, taking in a deep serving of dusty air. His lungs expand, then shrink again. The air leaves his body through his mouth and comes back through his nostrils. He pretends that he's pushing out the past and the negativity along with it, while letting in positivity, a new, bright future. Soon the stinging in his face starts to cease.

Let it go, Murdoc had said. Maybe now he could start to, now that he knew for sure that things would never be the same. Now that he had closure, now that he had told the demon to piss right off.

Letting go of the bad, bringing the good in.

He breathes. The sun is setting on this day. Tomorrow is a new one. Tomorrow, maybe he can try to forget.

He breathes.

Something... something smells strange...

He starts to feel dizzy. He strains to identify the smell, but by that time it's already everywhere, filling the room, filling him. It's in his nose, his eyes, his mouth, he can even feel it on his skin. Gasoline.

Stuart barely has time to realize his situation before his vision is closing in. He's slipping. His eyes slide shut without his control, and his whole body falls forward. There's a terrible crack as his forehead smacks against the window with enough force to break it. The sun is gone. He sees her face in the dark, and the sun is gone.


End file.
